Good as Dead tt-10

by Mark Billingham

  ‘You are sitting out there, talking on the phone,’ Akhtar said. ‘How is that going to help either of us? How is it going to help your friend Miss Weeks?’

  Thorne looked at Pascoe and searched for something to say, but before he could come up with anything the line had gone dead.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Thorne asked Donnelly if he could speak to Nadira Akhtar again before he left. Told him that, with luck, she might be able to suggest where he should be going.

  ‘You think she knows something that will help?’

  ‘Not a clue,’ Thorne said. ‘But I haven’t got any better ideas.’

  ‘Listen, wherever you go, make sure you stay in touch, OK?’ The superintendent was walking with him to the classroom that had been set aside as a family liaison area. Donnelly was rather more casually dressed today, in short-sleeved white shirt and black tie. Dispensing with the jacket and hat gave the impression to fellow officers and interested civilians alike that he was mucking in with the rest of his team, rolling up his sleeves. Though it might just have been because he was sweating. ‘And obviously, if you have any communication with Helen Weeks, you let me know straight away.’

  ‘I have been,’ Thorne said.

  ‘So what was all that about on the phone?’

  ‘All what about?’

  ‘Your message.’

  ‘You know what it was.’

  ‘Is it true?’ Donnelly stopped outside the classroom. ‘Do you think he’s right about what happened to his son?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Thorne said. ‘But whether I can prove it and give him what he wants in time is a different question.’

  ‘He hasn’t given us any kind of time limit.’

  ‘You heard him just now.’ Thorne nodded back towards the hall. ‘And a certain firearms officer with his cock where his Glock should be is getting decidedly twitchy, if you ask me.’

  Donnelly flashed him a warning look as he knocked on the window in the classroom door and beckoned to the WPC inside. He told her that Thorne needed to talk to Mrs Akhtar and the officer stepped out, looking grateful for the chance of some air, or perhaps just a change of company.

  The desks had been pushed back against the walls and a few plastic seats set up in a circle in the middle of the room. There was a low table with tea and biscuits. A few magazines were scattered about, but Nadira Akhtar did not look as if she felt much like flicking through Take a Break or OK!

  She was sitting on a chair near the window.

  Thorne saw the open holdall beneath one of the desks as he carried a chair across to join her. Clothes and a flowery washbag. ‘Did you sleep here last night?’

  ‘I wanted to,’ she said. ‘The house is empty anyway.’

  ‘Where’s your son?’

  ‘He has a family of his own to take care of.’ She looked at Thorne for the first time. ‘He will come back later but I am happier being on my own, to be honest with you. We argue.’

  ‘About what?’

  She waved the question away.

  ‘Couldn’t your daughter stay with you?’

  ‘I told her to keep away.’ She shook her head, then tucked a strand of greying hair back beneath her embroidered headscarf. ‘I do not want her to see her father like this. To see how much he is frightening everyone.’ She looked towards the door. ‘To be around all these people who hate him.’

  ‘Nobody hates him,’ Thorne said. ‘They’re just doing their jobs.’

  Nadira turned away and stared out again at the empty playground. A group of uniformed officers was gathered in one corner near a climbing frame, and on the far side it was just possible to see a row of emergency vehicles parked up beyond the tree line: the ARVs, the squad cars, an ambulance.

  ‘Do you still see Rahim Jaffer?’ Thorne asked.

  Something tightened, just momentarily, in Nadira’s face.

  The boy who had been with Amin the night of the attack.

  The boy he had been trying to defend when he had stabbed Lee Slater to death.

  ‘He came to Amin’s funeral, of course,’ Nadira said. ‘Lots of his friends came, some I had never even met before.’ She nodded, proud. ‘He had a great many friends.’

  ‘So what about seeing Rahim?’

  ‘Not since then, no.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’

  Another small wave of the hand, as though what she were about to say was silly and unimportant. ‘We used to be friendly with his parents, but after what happened there was some… awkwardness. Perhaps they thought we would blame their son. Perhaps because he was free and ours was rotting in that place. So we have not seen them in a while. We sometimes hear about Rahim, but only because one of his cousins still comes into the shop now and again.’

  ‘What’s he doing?’

  ‘He is studying hard, I think.’ Her hands were in her lap, one rubbing at the other as she spoke. ‘At the South Bank University. Accountancy or economics or what have you. He was a very clever boy, same as Amin.’

  Thorne thanked her for her time, grateful too that she had not seemed keen to know how things had gone the day before at Barndale. Whether or not she secretly shared any of her husband’s concerns about what had happened to her son, it was obvious that she preferred to remember him simply as a popular and bright boy.

  Not one who had died alone and unhappy in prison.

  Thorne considered asking Nadira Akhtar there and then if she had known her son was gay. Perhaps she had known – would a mother not always know? – and kept the truth from her husband. He felt sure the time would come when he would have to tell both of them, but in the end he decided that it could wait. Thorne knew that where there was one secret though, there were usually others. That they bred easily. He guessed that Rahim Jaffer had shared the secret of Amin’s sexuality at the very least, so now Thorne had a place to start looking.

  ‘If you see Rahim,’ Nadira said, ‘please would you be sure to tell him that we never blamed him for anything?’ She had turned to the window again, her eyes closed against the sunlight that was suddenly streaming into the room.

  Thorne said that he would, but carrying his chair back to the centre of the classroom, he was thinking about something Nadira had said a few minutes before. About the boy who so many had told him kept himself to himself.

  Wondering where he had got all those friends from.

  TWENTY-NINE

  As Holland and Kitson reversed into a parking space a few doors down from the address they had been given in Hackney, they saw a young man step out on to the pavement and start walking towards them. Nineteen or twenty, with dark hair that seemed pasted to his scalp and tattoos clearly visible on the arm outstretched to yank a bull terrier puppy along behind him.

  Holland checked the black and white headshot clipped to the folder in his lap. ‘That’ll be our boy, then.’

  ‘Bless him,’ Kitson said. She nodded down to the file. ‘Say anything in there about him being an animal lover?’

  The file detailed the assorted crimes and misdemeanours that had resulted in Peter David Allen serving various sentences in three different Young Offenders Institutions since he was fourteen years old: actual bodily harm, burglary, threatening behaviour, sexual assault. Up until nine weeks previously, he had been a prisoner at Barndale, serving eight months out of thirteen after attacking a woman with a fence post when she had dared to try and stop him stealing her car.

  Holland tossed the folder on to the back seat. ‘Pete seems to like animals rather more than people.’

  They watched Allen haul his dog past the car, waited a minute or two, then got out and followed.

  ‘Just makes him typically British,’ Kitson said. They walked a hundred yards behind Allen on the opposite side of the road. ‘More money gets given to the RSPCA every year than the NSPCC, did you know that? Makes you proud, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Country’s going to the dogs,’ Holland said.

  ‘Funny… ’

  At the end of the street, Allen turn
ed left on to Dalston Lane. He ducked briefly into a grocer’s and came out chugging from a can of Red Bull and tearing the wrapping from a packet of Marlboro. A hundred yards further on, he stopped to tie the dog to a lamppost and disappeared into a bookmaker’s.

  When he emerged a few minutes later clutching his betting slip, Kitson was leaning against the lamppost checking her phone. Holland was on his haunches making a fuss of the puppy, who was happily chewing at his sleeve.

  ‘Fuck you doing?’ Allen asked.

  Holland looked up. ‘Nice dog,’ he said. ‘Course it almost certainly won’t be by the time you’ve finished with it.’ He gave the puppy’s belly one last rub then stood up. ‘It’s all about how you bring them up, isn’t it? Same as kids really, but I don’t have to tell you that, do I?’

  ‘You what?’

  Allen’s stance was still aggressive, but he was clearly confused. His mouth opened then closed again, before his eyes flicked to the warrant card Kitson was waving at him and his shoulders slumped. Without a word he stepped across to untie his dog, then turned and walked back the way he’d come.

  Holland and Kitson fell into step either side of him.

  ‘Got yourself a job then, Pete?’ Kitson asked.

  ‘What’s it got to do with you?’

  ‘Just making conversation. I mean either you have, or you’re just pissing your dole money away on the gee-gees.’

  ‘It’s my money.’

  They paused as the dog stopped and squatted outside the same grocer’s Allen had been into a few minutes earlier. Allen dragged the puppy across the pavement, lit a cigarette and watched as the dog went about its business in the gutter.

  ‘You’d better hope you win,’ Holland said. ‘There’s a two-hundred-quid fine for that.’

  Allen smirked. They carried on walking.

  ‘You been out what, a couple of months?’ Holland asked.

  Allen shrugged. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Back on your feet?’

  ‘Getting there.’

  ‘More than Amin Akhtar is, that’s for sure.’

  Allen said, ‘Who?’

  They turned into the street where Allen lived. A row of old artisans’ cottages ran for almost half its length, but at the far end the Victorian terraces had been knocked down and replaced by blocks of council-owned maisonettes. The small front gardens were nicely maintained for the most part, but there were bars on almost all the doors and windows. Allen had moved a few feet ahead of Kitson and Holland as he approached his front door. He reached for his key then turned to see them following him up the front path. He shook his head. ‘No chance.’

  ‘We only want a chat,’ Kitson said. ‘What are you so jumpy about?’

  ‘Not without a warrant. That’s harassment, whatever.’

  ‘Don’t need one if you invite us in.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  Allen opened the door, but when he turned to close it he found Holland’s foot in the way.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Pete.’ Holland pushed his way inside and Kitson followed. ‘But we can only stay a few minutes… ’

  A small hallway-cum-porch led straight into a living room. Allen marched past Holland and Kitson and took the dog through into the kitchen. They watched as he opened a back door and let the puppy out on to a tiny, turd-covered patio at the back. Kitson opened another door on to a narrow corridor with what she presumed were a bedroom and bathroom running off it, while Holland walked across to examine the sleek black stereo and the rows of CDs and DVDs on the shelves above it.

  Allen came back in to see Kitson emerging through the doorway and Holland rifling through his collection of thrash metal and torture porn. He stood in the centre of the living room and raised his arms in outrage.

  Said, ‘This is taking the piss.’

  Holland nodded towards the stereo system: a Denon CD and Blu-Ray player; the big Bose speakers at either end of the room and the smaller ones mounted high up on the walls. ‘This is decent gear, Pete. I wouldn’t mind something like this myself.’ He turned to look at the plasma TV that took up most of one wall. ‘Have to put in a bit more overtime though.’

  ‘I’ve got receipts,’ Allen said. ‘All right?’

  Holland looked impressed. ‘You must be getting some good tips then.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘On the horses.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve had a few winners.’

  ‘And we can check that, can we?’ Kitson asked. ‘Obviously your bookie up the road keeps records of all his payouts.’ She sat down on a faded brown armchair. ‘For tax reasons, you know?’

  Allen seemed to grow agitated suddenly. He walked over to the wall and leaned back hard against it. ‘Is there any point to this?’ He pushed his hands into his pockets. ‘Because if you’re waiting for tea and biscuits you can stick them up your arse.’

  Holland dropped into the chair that was in front of the TV and turned it round so that he and Kitson were both facing Allen. ‘Why did you put Amin Akhtar in hospital?’ he asked.

  ‘I didn’t,’ Allen said.

  ‘Sure?’ Kitson asked. ‘Five minutes ago you didn’t even know who he was.’

  ‘I just meant… I never knew him very well, that’s all. You know how many kids there are in there?’

  ‘Why does it matter if you knew him or not?’ Holland asked. ‘How well did you know that woman you battered with the fence post?’

  ‘It wasn’t me.’

  ‘Some of the prison officers think it was.’

  ‘Well they can kiss my arse, same as you can.’ Allen was doing his very best to look cocky, but there was still nervousness around the eyes as he tried and failed to stare Holland and Kitson out. ‘Look, I never took a knife to that kid, what else can I tell you?’

  ‘Who said anything about a knife?’

  Allen looked flustered, but only for a second or two. Then he smiled, pleased with himself. ‘Everybody knew he’d been slashed, so you’re not being clever. Something like that happens, word gets round before the poor bastard’s finished bleeding. Besides, the screws turned my cell over looking for it, didn’t they? And they found sod all.’

  ‘It’s a fair point, Pete,’ Kitson said. ‘There isn’t a scrap of evidence and the fact is that even if you told us right here and now that it was you, we’re far too busy to do a great deal about it. I mean the kid’s dead now, right, and it wasn’t like you had anything to do with that.’ She waited, studied his face. ‘But let’s just say hypothetically that it was you who attacked him-’

  ‘It wasn’t.’

  Kitson held her hand up. ‘For the sake of argument, all right? If it was you, then why might you have done it? Like you say, you barely knew the kid, right? It wasn’t like it was revenge for some fight you’d had with him or he’d said something to piss you off in the canteen, was it? Not a kid like him. I mean… fair play to you, you did a very nice job, you got away with it somehow. You managed to stash the knife somewhere, got yourself cleaned up, but it was still a hell of a risk.’ She turned to Holland. ‘Don’t you reckon?’

  Holland nodded. ‘You’d have to be an idiot.’

  ‘What were you, just a few days from being released? Something like that would have put plenty more time on your sentence, so there’s no way you’d have done it without a seriously good reason, is there? Without something decent in it for you, I mean. You’re not Brain of Britain, but you’re not an idiot, are you, Pete?’

  Allen struggled for something to say. Settled for: ‘This is bollocks.’

  ‘Maybe you did it because someone asked you to.’

  ‘What?’ Allen shook his head and tried to laugh, but it was tight, strangled.

  ‘Where did the money come from for all this?’ Holland asked. The dog was whimpering outside the kitchen, scratching at the back door. ‘And don’t tell us it was the three-thirty at Kempton Park, because we’re certainly not idiots.’

  Allen sniffed and looked as though he was considering spitting on t
he floor, until he remembered he was in his own living room. He pushed himself away from the wall and said, ‘I’ve got to feed my dog.’

  Holland and Kitson watched as Allen sauntered into the kitchen and closed the door behind him. They heard him open the back door, then listened to the skitter of the puppy’s claws on the tiles and Allen fussing over it, his voice deliberately raised so that they could hear just how unconcerned he was.

  ‘If you tell us who put you up to it, we can guarantee you won’t be prosecuted for the attack,’ Kitson shouted.

  Holland looked at her. They had been authorised to give no such guarantee. Kitson shrugged.

  There was no response from the kitchen.

  After half a minute they stood up to leave, but as Kitson moved back towards the porch, Holland walked across and leaned in close to the kitchen door. ‘Good luck.’

  There was a pause before Allen answered. ‘What?’

  ‘I was talking to the dog,’ Holland said.

  THIRTY

  Good people who snapped, they were always tricky to deal with. It was what they did that counted of course, the havoc no different to that wrought by multiple killers with no discernible conscience, the grief of those left behind no less crippling. But still…

  Hard to treat them the same way.

  As Thorne drove north, he thought about a Russian he had read about in a magazine, a man who had tracked down the Swiss air traffic controller whose negligence had cost the lives of his wife and children in a plane crash. The Russian had gone to the man’s door holding a photograph of his dead family and when the air traffic controller had knocked the picture from his hands, the man had lost his reason, burst into the house and stabbed the owner to death.

  ‘It was as if he had taken them from me all over again,’ the Russian had said, and years later, when he was finally released from prison, there had been a parade held in his honour.

  Good people who snapped.

  He remembered a teacher – the ‘best in the school’, according to parents and other members of staff – who had put a fifteen-year-old boy into a coma with a cricket stump after being baited once too often. Thorne had watched the man break down in the interview room, weeping like a child for two lives wiped out in a few seconds of madness. ‘The red mist,’ the teacher had said to him. ‘One of my kids put that in an English essay once and I crossed it out and put “cliche”, but that’s exactly what it’s like. I was watching this arm clutching that stump and then I realised it was mine, but I just couldn’t stop swinging it. It was like there was blood in my eyes.’